


Up, down, swirl

by bourbonrain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Tags to Come, Blow Job, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Hate Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 21:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18507223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bourbonrain/pseuds/bourbonrain
Summary: It feels good to call her a filthy mudblood. He wants her to waver from the slick of disgust in his voice; for a moment, she does. Then her eyes harden and her nostrils flare; he likes that too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Dedication** : To my amazing alpha / beta, PartyLines 

**Part 1**

* * *

It feels good to call her a filthy mudblood. He wants her to waver from the slick of disgust in his voice; for a moment, she does. Then her eyes harden and her nostrils flare; he likes that too.

"Get out of my way, Malfoy," she snaps.

"Can't, mudblood." He relishes how she flinches again at the word. "I'm sure Umbridge wants to know why you're lurking about the restricted section after hours."

She moves quickly. Before he can draw his wand, hers is pressed into his chest.

"Must be nice," she says. "First Snape, and now Umbridge too. I'm surprised Lucius is still bribing your professors from Azkaban."

He knows she's only goading him to distract from whatever text she'd just hurriedly shoved into her book bag. He knows that he has more pressing things to worry about, like the barely healed gashes scattered over his abdomen from Potter's curse, or the memory of his mother's torture sitting in his pensieve, or his growing disillusionment with his father's continued commitment to a power-drunk mad man. It's already after two in the morning, which means he only has a few valuable hours left to tinker with the broken cabinet before classes start. He doesn't have time to play cat and mouse with Granger, but he can't resist her as an outlet for his inner wretchedness.

He leans forward into her wand. "That's right. What are you going to do? Curse me and Umbridge will have your arse expelled."

She swallows hard. He almost laughs at the look of fright that unfolds across her face. Bloody swot. Of course, expulsion is what scares her most.

While she's momentarily off guard, he easily disarms her with a flick of his wrist. He barely manages to pocket her wand before she tackles him with a snarl. She's vicious, but he's more agile. It should only require minor effort to incapacitate her, but he's sore and slow from his recent injuries. She manages to clock his jaw and scratch his face before he pins her to the ground.

"Get off!" Her voice is strained from his weight.

Her dark hair is splayed wildly against the ancient Hogwarts carpet, and her doe eyes are wide with alarm. Despite the chaos of their tussle, he registers that she's soft and pretty and vulnerable. His erection grows between them, and she must feel it too for she struggles all the more.

He's taller, heavier, stronger. Her wrists are easily gripped in his hands beside her head, and her legs are splayed around him. He knows he can do anything to her right now and get away with it. He's seen the likes of Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov take advantage of whimpering muggle women, and in this moment, it'd be so easy to become that sort of man. It simultaneously turns him on and makes him sick.

"Draco, please," she begs. He realizes she's crying hot tears against his collarbone as she wriggles against him.

He pulls back and glares down at her. He's disgusted by own depraved thoughts, and how lesser than he feels despite having overpowered her. She's little miss perfect in all the worst ways - sanctimonious and brimming with hero complex entitlement - while he's slated to become their headmaster's murderer. He's not about to become a rapist too. At least he's not that.

"Relax, mudblood. As if I'd sully myself with the likes of you."

He lets go of her wrists, and is about to deduct some house points and send her off to bed when she surprises him by reaching down and cupping his length. The squeeze of her hand almost makes him come instantly.

"Fuck," he breathes. "What are you doing?"

"Hypocrite," she sneers. "You're obviously turned on by me."

He doesn't argue, and he doesn't stop her as she continues to stroke him.

"You like this," she accuses again. "Funny how hard you are for a filthy mudblood."

He wants to say something scathing back, but it's hard to think when Hermione Granger is touching his dick, and it's the best, worst thing to ever happen to him.

When he doesn't respond, she reaches into his robes and fishes out his bare cock straining at attention. He wonders where, when, with whom she's learned to do this. He lets her push him onto his back, watching mesmerized as she kneels between his legs and rounds her spine over his hardness.

In the next moments, all that matters is the gentle flick of her little pink tongue against the head of his length, and then the lovely warmth of her mouth as she takes him all the way to the back of her throat. Up, down, swirl.

This night has certainly taken an interesting turn.

The comparison to Pansy is inevitable. The other girl was all sultry moans and hungry slobber, with assets he certainly enjoyed up until their recent break up. Granger is different - slower, deeper,  _controlled_. There's no subservient glance up; rather, she takes him smugly, like she'll later lord over him how he sat there dumbly, weakly, paralyzed by pleasure.

He wants to reach down and finger her, make her lose control the way he's about to, but he doesn't know what the rules are here and he doesn't want to scare her away.

"Admit how much you like getting pleasured by a mudblood," she insists when she breaks away for air.

He groans at the loss of contact, but the reprieve from her mouth helps clear his mind a little.

"I'm not going to call you a mudblood while you're giving me head," he snaps. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Granger?"

She sits back on her heels.

"Nothing," she hisses, "is wrong with me."

He sighs when she wraps her mouth around him again. Her throat is so tight around the head of his cock, and fuck, she's found that spot behind his balls that jolts pleasure up his spine. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and even then, all he can see is her tear-streaked anger as he comes in her mouth. Through his orgasm, she sucks and licks and milks him with her mouth. It's perfect, like everything else she does.

When he opens his eyes again, she's standing with her wand pointed down at him. His dick is still hard, poking out lewdly from his robes. He's sure his eyes are still glazed over from endorphins.

"Don't follow me." Then, she spins on her heels, grabs her bag, and walks away.

* * *

 **Author's note:**  Sorry not sorry for such shameless smut. Stay tuned for parts 2 and 3. Reviews always appreciated!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

The Dark Lord likes to motivate with threats. There was another vial of memories that arrived with today's morning post. Recently, he's begun receiving them several times a week. They almost always depict his mother suffering the Cruciatus. Once, it was a memory of his father shivering in Azkaban while dementors lurked outside the cell. In this sense, Voldemort is right - the threats provide ample motivation.

He manages to sleep an hour, maybe two, every night; usually in the Room of Requirement, slumped over the broken Vanishing Cabinet. He shouldn't, doesn't have time to, think about what passed between him and Granger in the restricted section alcove. Since Pansy broke up with him, he's been doing their patrol shifts alone, giving his mind far too much time drift. Before the incident, all he could think about were ways to further his assigned missions - kill Dumbledore, fix the cabinet, obstruct the Order. Now, he finds himself circling back to the restricted section multiple times a night, heart quickening each time in anticipation of... what?

When he passes Granger in the Great Hall, or in their shared classes, she barely spares him a glance - as if it never happened. But he vividly knows, constantly replays the feel of her curves as she fought against him, and her mouth so wet and hot around his cock. The bloody swot - only she could kneel before him and make him feel like the one who's lost control. He never liked her much, but now, that dislike has sharpened into something that cuts deeper, aches more, lingers longer.

He isn't stupid. He knows Hermione Granger didn't put her mouth on his dick just because. If he were a better servant to the Dark Lord, he would have chased after her and put eyes to the book she was willing to blow him to hide. Regardless, it certainly serves as justification to continue patrolling the restricted section. Each time, it's been empty as he walked by, as it should be in the middle of the night.

Tonight however, he sees the soft glow of Lumos emanating from the warded alcove. He softens his footsteps and steadies his wand. His heart thuds harder as he nears, and he forces himself to slow his breaths in preparation for the duel to come.

Despite his caution, he treads on a creaky floorboard and immediately the light goes out.

"Lumos," he lights his own wand, and advances quicker.

He turns the corner, and scowls when he sees that there's no one there. He's long suspected that Potter and his friends have access to an invisibility cloak, a sophisticated one impervious to heat and motion detection charms.

Thinking quickly, he swishes his wand and casts a flurry of spells across the room.

"Stupefy! Stupefy! Incarcerous!"

The force of his magic shakes books from shelves and sends the lone ancient table in the room careening to the far wall. He has a lot of clean up to do, but it's worth it. The last spell casts a net of flesh-seeking ropes that tighten around a writhing, invisible figure.

"Mmph!"

Gotcha.

"The ropes will only tighten the more you struggle," he notes smugly as he steps closer.

"I know how Incarcerous works." The discombobulated voice definitely belongs to Granger, who despite her snappishness, does take his advice and ceases fighting against the bonds.

He guesses at where her face is and reaches out to unhood her.

"Hello, Malfoy."

It's clear from her wet lashes and tear-streaked face that she's been crying, but her voice is clear and stern, rearing for a fight.

"Hi, Granger," he replies.

"Miss the mudblood, have you?" she says, with far more superiority than anyone in her position should have.

He scowls at her self-inflicted slur, and doesn't reply. This is the moment that he's been waiting for, but now that it's here, he doesn't know how to proceed. There's what he should do to secure his family's safety - impassively interrogate her and relay the information back to the Dark Lord - but that's not what he's been hungering for.

"I see you come by, you know," she continues. "Couple times a night. It's sweet really, how I've been on your mind."

He hopes the dim lighting hides the heat creeping up his face. He frowns and steps closer. Keeping his wand trained on her, he uses his other hand to pull apart the invisibility cloak. Beneath, she's wearing pajamas - cream-colored cotton patterned with blue blossoms. He runs his hand down her sternum, her abdomen, and pats down the length of both legs. There, on the ground, still partially obscured by the magical fabric, is her book bag.

"Draco," she says softly. "You did like it, didn't you?"

He ignores her, bends down and picks up the bag. "Now what have you got tucked away in here?"

He ruffles through the sack. There are far more books than its outer appearance would suggest - some kind of extension charm he isn't familiar with. Other than their requisite textbooks, the remaining works all pertain to memory modification.

"Draco," she says again, this time with more urgency. "Please. I can... again."

He thins his lips and keeps his expression neutral, the way he does when scrutinized by Voldemort's Legillimens.

The paths are clear, aren't they? On one hand, he can turn the book bag over to Umbridge; surely the information it holds is valuable if Granger is willing to barter her body for it. On the other, he can help himself to what he's been fantasizing about relentlessly. If he's a real bastard, he can do both.

But maybe the real choice here is between self-preservation and being able to live with himself.

"Right," he says coldly. "Like I'd want your dirty mouth on me again."

Her eyes flash in irritation, and he feels his cock engorging.

"Finite incantum," he mutters, then shoves the book bag into her newly freed hands. "Go back to bed, Granger."

She looks at him in surprise. "Why?"

"Why? Why are you crying by yourself in the restricted section at this hour? What do you have hidden away, that you're willing to whore yourself to hide?"

She doesn't move, and neither does he.

"Are you?" she asks softly. "A Death Eater that is? Is that why you've-"

"Go back to bed if you know what's good for you."

"I don't want to. I don't think you'll hurt me, despite how big and bad you think you are," she says as she wandlessly shrinks the bookbag and tucks it away into her pajama pocket.

"Do you really want to test that theory?"

"I already did."

She has her wand out now, so he tightens his grip on his.

"I'm disappointed," she continues. "Didn't all that pureblood breeding teach you anything about repaying favors?"

He blinks quizzically.

She reaches for his hand. Her fingers are cold, and he resists the urge to warm them against his own.

"I made you come last time. I think I'm owed something in return."

His breath hitches as she guides his touch under her top, until his fingers are grazing her bare, hardened nipples. He's so hard now that it hurts. It's his turn to ask why, but he doesn't want to. This way, he can ignore all the ulterior motives he doesn't want to confirm. This way, he can at least pretend to believe she wants to be with him in this way.

"Go back to bed," he tells her again, but he doesn't mean it. He's already thumbing her nipples and palming her breasts, and walking her backwards to the cracked table. He repairs it before he lifts her to sit on its edge.

She fumbles with his belt as he undoes the drawstring to her pajama bottoms. His hand finds its way to her pussy, and she's wet, soaked through her panties, and mewing breathy sighs against his neck.

"Tell me you want me," she says. His length is in her hand now, and again, he wonders where she's learned to do this.

"I should think that's obvious."

"Tell me anyway."

He bats her hand away so he can slick his cock against her slit, and just like that, he's pushing into Hermione Granger, and she's so warm, so tight, so perfect around the head of his cock. He squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating on not coming then and there. It's not until he opens them, and pulls out a bit that he even notices her white knuckles gripping the edge of the table, and how her core is too tight really, tense in a way that surely means she's in pain.

"I want you," he appeases.

But she's already avoiding his gaze, and new trails of tears wet the dried streaks already on her face.

With a sinking feeling, he pulls out and she collapses against him.

"What the fuck," he says. "Are you a virgin?"

So much for avoiding self-loathing. She has her face buried in her hands now, and like most other times he's been confronted by a crying girl, he has to fight the urge to run.

He should ask if she wants to stop, but his cock is still rock hard, and her legs are still spread around him, and she's still so very naked and pretty. Ron Weasley is a goddamn idiot, because who would give up this for Lavender Brown?

"Shhh," he says as nicely as he can.

When she doesn't stop sobbing, he sinks to his knees and parts her legs further. Her pussy is beautiful, pink and moist, with just a peek of the inner folds spilling out for him to lick.

She gasps when he puts his mouth on her.

"What... what are you doing?"

"Figure it out, know-it-all."

He flicks his tongue across her clit, and revels in how her thighs tighten around him as she pushes her core against his mouth. He gently eases a finger, then two into her, exploring, searching for that special spot.

"Ahhh!" she cries out.

Found it.

He sucks on her clit, and fucks her with his hand until her fingers are in his hair and her legs are shaking around him and her juices are pooling at the edge of the table.

"Shit," she gasps. "Fuck."

He grins against her pussy. He's made prim and proper Granger curse while she climaxed.

"Well," she says after a pause. "I suppose that's a favor repaid."

When she moves to slip off the table, he stands and pushes her back down.

"Not quite."

"No?"

He tries to swallow the words, but they tumble out like slippery marbles.

"I didn't mind when I thought you were just trying to distract me from whatever is in that bag, but I don't like being used."

He expects her to wince in fear as he pushes his cock against her entrance once more. After all, isn't she just a sad little virgin? Or was anyway, before he slipped in a quarter hour ago. Instead, she hardens her eyes and there's that goddamn petulance again.

"Don't pretend to be some villain, Malfoy. I already know -"

"Shut up," he snaps, then thrusts in.

She's less tense this time, but he can still tell it hurts her.

"You're right," she gasps. "Enough talking."

He pulls out slowly and then eases further in, again and again, until he's pushed up snug all the way inside her. Each motion only seems to make her wetter, hotter, squirmier, until she's rocking back against him and squeezing his dick with her inner walls.

"I thought I was fucked in the head," he tells her. "But you're a real piece of work, aren't you?"

"I thought," she says breathily. "That you didn't want to talk anymore."

"What kind of girl wants to be called a mudblood during a blow job?"

"But you didn't-"

"What kind of girl wants her first time to be as a whore?"

She slaps him. It doesn't hurt much, but it makes him angry anyway.

"I'm not a whore," she snaps.

He retaliates by thrusting harder, hoisting her legs up and bending them into her chest, so she's nothing but a hole for him to fuck.

"What kind of girl," he continues, "Wants her first time to be for revenge?"

She snaps her head forward and catches his lower lip between her teeth.

And here they finally are at their first kiss, and she's already drawing blood. He finds her clit and pinches it hard, and then she's crying out against his mouth, pulsing around him in hot, wet spasms.

The contact between their lips gentles, and they kiss and kiss. He likes that she tastes like her tears and his blood, and how she's now like jelly around him, and how ragged her moans are as he pounds into her with more force than he should.

"Tell me you want me," she says again before he comes.

"You stupid witch," he groans. "I've never wanted anything more."

* * *

 **Author's note:** Whew! Part 2 down. Stay tuned for part 3! As always, I'd love to know what you think!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	3. Chapter 3

She looks sallow in the months after the war. Still a bossy swot of course, starting this initiative and that for aiding those orphaned or handicapped by the war. She spends meal times passing around petitions, and weekends organizing the restoration of Hogwarts.

She never approaches him though, so he knows she feels more than indifference towards him.

Like Potter and Weasley, she testifies on his behalf at the trial, stating that he lied to protect their identities after their capture. She does this even though he watched frozen as she was tortured before him. She called him brave, and his actions necessary for their survival. He isn't so sure, but he's glad for the acquittal.

Sometimes, he sees her with Potter and Weasley at Hogsmeade. For a while, she and Weasley go around holding hands, and she looks happy - adoring and spirited in a way makes him feel hollow.

It's not that he lacks for female company. He gets all sorts vying for his attention - good girls that like bad boys, sympathetic girls who think he's oh so redeemable, opportunistic girls who remember that he's still one of the richest heirs in England. There's no shortage of partners with whom he can feel slightly less miserable with for a few hours at a time.

* * *

Eventually, photographs turn up in the tabloids of Weasley snogging various women in London nightclubs. When he sees her in the halls, it's clear she's been crying. He doesn't understand how one of the bravest, most willful people he's ever met can cry so damn much.

It doesn't take long before she turns up in his bedroom. Some wretched part of him has been expecting her.

"Hello, Draco," she says primly. She's sitting on his bed with her hands folded in her lap,

"How did you get in here?" he asks tiredly. He's rumpled and sweaty from flying laps around the quidditch pitch after dinner.

"I helped to design the new wards," she replies. "I suppose this is a rather unusual use of my knowledge, but here we are."

"Right." He rolls his eyes. "Why would the rules apply to Hermione fucking Granger?"

"I didn't think you'd mind." She looks at him evenly for a few seconds, then she lifts her hands up to her neck and begins to unfasten her tie.

His mouth goes dry and his cock starts to get hard, and resentment coils in the pit of his gut at the goddamn gall of her after all this time. He's abided by the line she's drawn between them. Now she's marched across, the chooser paying the beggar a visit.

He glares as she moves on to undoing the buttons to her uniform shirt.

"Don't bother," he sneers. "I've seen your tiny tits and they really don't do much for me."

He likes the flash of hurt that flickers across her face, and he itches to cut her more.

"They didn't do much for Weasley either, eh?" He flings the words like razors and smirks when they strike.

For a moment, he thinks her eyes are about to water, but she smooths her expression and fixes him a clear gaze.

"Didn't know you kept up with my love life."

Before he can stop himself, he strides forward, reaches behind her head for a fistful of hair and slams her facedown so she's bent over his bed.

"Lets get to the point, why don't we?" He flips up her skirt and yanks down her underwear with enough force such that one side rips clean from her hips. Then, he plunges two fingers into her slit and begins fucking her. She's less tight than before, and wetter, dripping down the insides of her thighs within seconds of his ministrations.

"This is why you're here, isn't it?" he sneers.

She's whimpering, and pushing back against his hand.

"Isn't it?" he presses.

"You're being cruel," she twists around to tell him.

"No shit, Granger. You didn't come here for cuddles, did you?"

"You weren't like this before," she says breathily. Even now, she's still riding his fingers, moans growing louder as he pushes three, then four digits against that special rough spot inside her.

"Your cunt certainly wasn't this loose before."

"It'd be best if you didn't talk," she says through gritted teeth.

He pulls his hand away and delivers a heavy slap against her ass. He threads his fingers, still wet with her juices, in her hair and yanks her head back until his mouth is pressed against her ear.

"Don't pretend you don't like this. We both know what sort of shit you get off on."

He lets go of her and she falls backwards onto his bed, roughed up and panting. Up close, he can see the dark circles under her eyes, and the sunken hollows of her too-thin face. If he liked her even just a little, he'd ask her if she was alright, but he doesn't, shouldn't, would never.

He expects her to say something clever and cruel, but all she does is shake her head. "Sorry," she mutters, looking away. "I shouldn't have come here."

He frowns at this version of her - miles removed from the smug temptress from a year ago.

She stands and moves to slip past him. He should let her go, should notget mixed up in her mess, but her underwear is already down around her knees, and his fingers are still slick with her wetness, and his cock is throbbing to be inside of her.

"Come on now," he snaps. "You went through all that trouble to break in. All you have to do is ask nicely for what you want."

"I... can't."

"You can."

He pushes her down easily, and parts her legs so he's standing between them. She lets him maneuver her, watching him quietly, tentative and unsure. He's disappointed in how insecure she seems, even more so that Weasley likely had something to do with it.

"Don't be so pathetic," he says, as he unbuttons his slacks and releases his cock.

After a beat, she hardens her gaze.

"I'm not pathetic," she snaps. "I'm not the one that sleeps with anything that moves."

Finally, he thinks. There's the willful fucking swot.

Despite the bite in her words, she lets him lift her legs around his hips, and pushes back against him as he presses his length against her entrance.

"Why not?" he laughs. "Looks like you need a good fuck more than anything."

And then neither one of them is talking, because he's sinking inside of her, and holy fuck, Hermione Granger is wrapped around his cock and she's moaning and squeezing around him and squirming for more. It takes some concentration to not cum instantly, but once he has a handle on how good she feels, he pulls out and pushes slowly back in.

He slides one hand up the flat of her belly, up the bony space between her breasts. He can feel her heart thumping beneath her flesh, and the hardened peaks of her nipples against his palm, and all the tension of want in her muscles as she fucks him back.

Merlin, she feels good. And fuck, it feels good that it's her.

Until he looks down and sees that her eyes are squeezed shut and her head is turned away and he remembers that she's only using him as some sort of revenge fuck.

He grits his teeth, and digs his fingertips hard against her hips and slams into her hatefully. She wails in pleasure and angles her pelvis up to take more of him, and for some reason, it makes him even more angry that she actually likes this.

All those other girls - he used them to erase her, write over her until the memories of her mouth and skin and curves and cunt blurred amongst all the others. It's inconvenient really to discover he never forgot, and never stopped wanting, and that he'll never have enough of this goddamn swot who'll go back to ignoring him tomorrow.

So he closes his eyes too, because he doesn't want to be imprinted by how beautiful she is like this. He reminds himself that she's just another body, another notch on his well-whittled bedpost, and that she's worse than the others because she can't even be bothered to moan his name when she cums in dozens of heavy throbs around his cock.

And then he's cresting too, and fuck, fuck, she's massaging his balls in the most perfect way. And finally, he opens his eyes and finds her watching him, panting her own pleasure through pouted lips. And he wants to kiss her, but he doesn't. And he wants to rest a bit with her curled against him, but he doesn't, can't, won't, because really, he can't stand to be around her for another goddamn second.

So he pulls out and climbs off the bed, and works his mouth into a wry smirk.

"Still a good fuck, Granger," he says, and because he's too much of a fucking coward to wait for her response, he turns and disappears unceremoniously into his bathroom.

He showers, and when he's done, she's gone.

* * *

 **Author's note** : Thank you to my lovely, amazing beta, PartyLines! Looks like there's going to be a part 4 (maybe a part 5) after all. I've really appreciated all the reviews! As always, would love to know what you think :)

PS - I know I've been absent from updating all my WIPs for a long while. Life has happened - a long holiday around the world complicated by the ups and downs of unexpected pregnancy then miscarriage have had my mind elsewhere. I'm only now trying to get back into the routine of writing regularly. Thank you for your patience in the meanwhile!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	4. Chapter 4

These days, he spends most evenings in the library, tucked away in an alcove where he won't be subject to self-righteous sneers and heckles. He hasn't yet been provoked into violent retaliation, but his skin is wearing thin.

Four more weeks and he'll be done with exams and free of this hell hole. The vitriol does not stop beyond the castle grounds however, or even at the borders of Great Britain. He's applied for over seventy Potions fellowships around the world and was promptly rejected from nearly all of them, despite a stellar academic record and a letter from now Headmistress McGonagall regarding his rehabilitation. Only one decently prestigious program, the Avenarius Insitute in South Africa, has granted him conditional acceptance, pending eleven NEWTs and a large cheque to finance a new rare elements wing. Given his long list of sins, he knows to be grateful for the opportunity.

It's fifteen minutes before the library closes, which means the likes of Blaise and Theo have long given up studying for the evening. Blaise already has a ministry internship lined up, and Theo is due to start Healer's training at St. Mungo's in the fall. Draco tries to not be resentful that his friends came out from the war so unscathed, that they were never forced to take the Dark Mark or perform illegal magic or attempt assassinations. Then, he tells himself that at least he isn't in Azkaban for the next decade like Greg, or worse - six feet under like Vincent. At least there's that.

When it's time to go, he sees a group of Gryffindor sixth years lurking by the library entrance. Groaning, he ducks into the nearest aisle to avoid them and makes his way toward the back exit. Pince and her assistant are giving final warning that the library is now closed. Overhead, the lights flicker off.

Shifting his book bag from one shoulder to the other, he turns the corner and spots a faint glow emanating from the Restricted Section. His heart quickens in Déjà vu, and though he knows he should simply walk past, that he cannot afford to be caught skulking about Dark texts after hours, he can't help but creak open the heavy door.

And there, slumped over the lone table is Granger fast asleep and drooling into a thick tome. He watches her for a few seconds, which is more than he's allowed himself to look her way since their last encounter. She's pale and thin, her uniform rumpled, and her hair mussed with grease and frizz. She's certainly not the most beautiful or stylish of the women he's fucked, but he still can't wick the feel of her from his flesh. He understands her brand of reckless want, that awful urge for something wrong and jarring and broken. Apparently, for her, that's him - once in a blue moon anyway.

She's not been back to his quarters since, hasn't treated him with anything more than indifference really. This is what he expects, and he's respectfully kept his distance, resisting any impulse he might have to yank her into some empty corner and find out just how much sway he has over her self-destructive tendencies. He's either avoided or broken things off with the others as well. There can be only so much fucking before feelings develop or ulterior motives reveal themselves. As he's grown increasingly busy with failed fellowship applications and NEWT preparations, he felt less and less inclined to deal with the complications of post-coital guilt and unreturned feelings.

In the dim room, there are numerous books splayed open all around Granger, along with parchments of various lengths unfurled and filled with her small, neat writing. He gingerly steps closer, and quietly maneuvers the text closest to him so that he can read the title - "Deplere, Depele" The one beside it is called, "Finagling the Mind." He doesn't need to look at the rest - these are the same books he found in her bag when they last had an encounter in this very room.

She begins to stir and instinctually, he retreats and slips out into the corridor.

Back in his quarters, he tries to not think about what he saw. Why would Granger still be looking at the same books on altering memory that she'd been so keen to protect during the war? Voldemort was dead, so what demons remain?

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams about her too thin body gyrating above him. Her nails are sharp against his skin, and she sucks his lower lip too hard between her teeth.

* * *

He wakes in the middle of the night to something hard pressed against the hollow of his neck. With a start, he realizes that his extremities are spreadeagled and immobilized against the bedposts, and most alarmingly, that there's a wand at his throat.

"What gives?" He instinctively struggles, then winces as the ropes tighten. He squints at the slim figure beside his bed.

"Granger?"

"Why were you in the restricted section tonight?" she demands, her eyes wide and wild.

"What the fuck," he sputters. "What's the meaning of this? You can't just come in here and -"

She jams the wand harder against his Adam's apple, causing him to gag and cough.

"Answer me!"

He glares at her defiantly.

"Don't make me do this the hard way."

"This is the easy way?"

She pulls her wand and steps back. He cranes his head to assess the room. His own wand is no where in sight, taken by her no doubt.

"Well, this is a new game, isn't it?" he quips. "You could have just told me you wanted to tie me up for some fun."

Her lips thin in displeasure. "This isn't that," she says flatly.

Fully awake now, he eyes her warily as she pulls a familiar looking vial from her robe pocket. She's cleaned up a bit since the library, though badly and probably with magic. Her hair is still frizzy, but at least it's tied back and something has been done about the grease. Her uniform has the subtle antiseptic smell of Scourigify. She must have caught a glimpse of him as he slipped out the door. He now wishes he hadn't intruded, hadn't lingered. What he saw tonight was a desperate woman poring over Dark texts, and now she was here to make sure he wouldn't interfere with her plans, whatever those may be.

"I'll ask you one more time," she says. "Why are you spying on me?"

"I wasn't! You fell asleep and left your wand glowing. I saw the light and -"

He stops short when she uncaps the vial. With growing dread, he remembers where he's seen the ornate little vessel before - in Snape's potions collection.

"I assure you, Granger, I'm telling you the truth."

"I'm sorry, Draco," she says softly. "Take the veritaserum willingly, or I'll make you."

"No! Don't -"

She moves quickly and shoves the mouth of the vial between his lips. He twists his head away, but it's too late - the tasteless potion is already on his tongue, with excess spilling down the side of his mouth. It's enough to last for a dozen hours at least.

"I'm afraid I had to," she says, "I have to know for sure. Why did you come into the Restricted Section?"

"Fuck you," he bites out, spitting the excess potion off to the side. "I really was telling you the truth."

At once, she looks regretful. "Alright," she says. "Tell me again."

"I saw the light under the door, and -"

"You're not even supposed to be around Dark paraphernalia," she cuts him off. "If the ministry finds out -"

"Are you going to tell them?"

"We'll see," she hesitates. "Why did you come in when you knew you could lose your wand privileges for it?"

At this, he tries to hold back the words, but the magic squeezes them onto his tongue.

"I had a flashback to last year when I found you there, and I wanted to see if it was you."

"So you were looking for me."

"Yes. I mean no, not exactly," he groans at the force of the magic, like a powerful magnet yanking the truth, however muddled, from his consciousness. These are truths he hasn't elucidated to himself, and he resents her all the more for siphoning them from him in this way.

"What then?" she demands.

"Just... just the possibility of you I guess."

He turns his head away so he doesn't have to reckon with the puzzled expression on her face.

"And why would you do that?"

"BecauseIwantedtofuckyouagainBecauseIcanteverstopwanting-"

There's more coming, but he bites his mouth closed, and forces his tongue painfully against the roof of his mouth to stifle the unwanted words. Even then it's not enough, so he pulls harder at his restraints. They're already so tight that his fingers are blue and numb, but the increasing friction against his wrists is a welcome distraction from the potion's effects.

"Stop!" she cries. "You'll hurt yourself."

"As if you'd give a fuck," he sneers. "Are you happy now, you fucking swot? It's nothing you didn't already know though, right? Why else would you feel so entitled to invade my room unannounced, and expect me to not report you. Oh, that's right, because Hermione fucking Granger can do whatever the fuck she wants!"

"Stop, _stop_ ," she says again, her voice breaking.

"Untie me now, or so help me Merlin, I'll-"

"Alright!" She steps back with her wand poised. "Please just - just stop."

Gritting his teeth, he ceases his movements.

After a pause, she releases the spell and he's free to sit up. Gingerly, he rubs his wrists with numb fingers. His faded Dark Mark is bifurcated by rope burn, and he wonders if, hopes he will scar in a way that will distort the cursed tattoo. When he can move his hands again, he wipes his mouth haphazardly with his fingers. They come away with blood, saliva, and excess veritaserum.

He can't even look at her, even though he can feel her holding her breath in wait. For a few moments, there's so much rage in his chest he's afraid he'll at once hurt her and spit out all his unwanted truths. He exhales to calm his thudding heart and slow the blood rushing to his brain, like his mother taught him to do in the face of Voldemort's Legillimens.

He's answered her question, technically anyway, and thinking this repeatedly helps to quell the urge to say more.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeats. Her wand is tucked away now and her hands are raised in supplication.

He watches her expressionlessly as she backs away towards the door.

He can't afford any missteps. Four weeks and twelve NEWTs, and he'll be on his way to a real future.

Forget this. Forget her.

Forget this. Forget her.

But he can't, can he? He hasn't all these months. She's interned in his synapses, wrapped around his neurons, twisted tight somewhere deep in his chest. It will be years later, and he'll think of this moment and how he let her walk away, and likely off some metaphorical ledge.

"Wait," he says finally, and she does.

He shifts to the edge of the bed, and rises to his feet.

She looks so worn, tired and thin. He should have seen it months ago when she came to his room. After all, his own reflection looked very much the same when he'd been forced to partake in the Dark Arts.

She slumps forward as he approaches her, and buries her face in his chest. He forgets sometimes, how small she really is.

"I shouldn't have. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Is that what you wanted to know?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "I didn't think that's what you would say." She lets out a dry little laugh. "I didn't think you ever really wanted me at all, especially after last time, when you were so cruel-"

"You were cruel first," he says without malice.

Gently, he tilts her chin and frames her face with his hands so she's forced to meet his gaze. In the dim lighting, her eyes are dark and her lashes are thick and wet with tears. He brushes his thumb over her lower lip, then bends forward and kisses her.

_A Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear._

And she'd all but poured it down his face. For her, the ends have always justified the means. He understands that about her now.

He lets her control the kiss, follows her lead as she opens her mouth slightly, and delicately traces his tongue against her lips. He's got her now. He should pull back and get on with his retaliation, but they've never kissed like this before, and it's hard to not relish how plush her lips are, how tentative and sweet her tongue is against his.

Her hands are on the lapels of his pajamas, tugging him closer to her, and he's all too aware that there are only a few thin layers of fabric between them. He's sure she can feel his dick hardening against her abdomen. When he pulls her onto the bed, she climbs on with him, their lips never parting as she straddles his lap. He's tugged her shirt free of the waistband of her skirt and she's fiddling with the drawstring of his pajamas. A little shift of her damp cotton panties to the side and there, right there, she's sinking down on his length.

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, and it's so easy to lose himself in how beautiful even this version of her is. He leans forward and presses his mouth against her neck, feels her pulse and the vibration of her moans against his lips. He lets her control the fucking too, sits back and rests his hands on her waist as she eases off of him, then sinks back down, each time taking more of him inside of her. And when she settles into a rhythm, her arms find their way back around his neck, her lips back to his. He likes how she whimpers into their kiss, how her hips rock back and forth with increasing urgency around his cock, and there, she's coming already in tight little flutters around him. He swallows her sighs of pleasure, kisses her back for just a little longer.

Then very slowly, reluctantly, he snakes his hand into her hair and tilts her head back. He watches her as her eyes blink open, and gradually widen when she realizes what he's done. He has both their wands in his other hand, and slides them easily into the warded drawer of his nightstand.

"No, don't-" she begins, then gasps as he thrusts up roughly inside her.

"Shh," he tells her. He runs one hand up her sternum, and with the other, grips her tightly by the waist.

"What are you up to, Hermione?"

* * *

 **Author's note:** Thank you to everyone who left reviews and/or condolences - the dramione community is so amazing. This story was just supposed to be a pwp, but I can't seem to write smut without plot, so it is what it is lol. One more chapter to go! I would love to know what you think so far!

PS - thank you always to my wonderful beta, PartyLines!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


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